That Night
by kberntsen
Summary: Lemon doesn't know.


She didn't know what she was doing there.

She'd had a terrible day, sure. Pete had been absent all week, visiting his wife's parents, and Jenna was in talks with TBS to have her own show, fed up with Tracy's demands to take over her dressing room. And this man, the man whose door she was knocking on right now, had cut her funding for refusing to include the "GE Microwave Oven Does Dallas" sketch in that night's show.

But there she was. Knocking on his door, Sabor de Soledad on her breath, hair falling out of her ponytail. She didn't know where else to go. Her Night Cheese just wasn't enough tonight, the night after Floyd's wedding.

She needed to see him, to smell his aftershave, to find out why he'd taken her refusal so personally. She'd fought him before over product placement. Over financial concerns. Over her personal life. Why was he acting like this time, this silly bickering, was worth the silent treatment? He knew she wanted him to succeed. He knew she'd do anything to see him as CEO, to see him happy for once.

She did know what she was doing there. She needed him.

Shaking herself, she listened for movement inside the penthouse.

Nothing.

She knocked again and listened, ear pressed to the door.

The locks opened, and then the door opened. There he was.

---

He didn't know what she was doing there.

"What are you doing there?"

"Don't you know?"

"Yes, I know."

He stepped aside and gestured for her to come in.

"Thanks."

"It's late, Lemon."

"I know, and I'm sorry."

"Well--"

"No, I'm not sorry. Why didn't you call me? You always call me. I'm sorry about the sketch, okay, but it just wasn't finished. I told you we'd include it next week. The audience loves GE Microwave Oven Head Man."

"I know they do. I've seen the numbers."

"Of course you have. It's not always about the numbers, Jack!"

"Lemon, it's always about the numbers. Have you met me?"

"I--"

"I'm tired, Lemon. What do you want?"

"I told you! I need to know if we're okay."

"We're okay. If you'll excuse me, I was in the middle of a dream about Hilary Clinton and.. Never mind. I'll see you tomorrow."

He shoos her out of his tastefully decorated apartment and closes the door with a quick "good night". She's left standing in his hallway, wondering what that dream was about, if she could make fun of him for it later, and how did he manage to completely skirt the issue? She knocked again.

"Lemon. Whatever you want to talk about, I'm sure it can wait for daylight hours. Have you been drinking wine?"

"Shut up, Jack. I'll drink whatever I want. I am a woman."

"I'm sure that I'm aware of that, considering the visible bra straps. You leave your house looking like that?"

She quickly adjusted her shirt and managed to stick her foot in the door as he was closing it.

"OW GOD NERDS BLURG FRIDGINATOR HOCKEY PUCK"

"Lemon! Why did you do that!"

"I've seen it work in the movies I've seen!"

Jack laughed and said, "Ha ha. Fine, come in. I'm awake now. Would you like some more wine?"

"No, Jack, I want some more _answers_," she said, moving to his plush couch, dark green with a black pinstripe and matching throw pillows, a couch she's sure he never uses, for anything.

"Okay, Lemon, speak ur mind."

She took a breath. "Jack, you and I know each other very well. You know to leave me alone on Free Hot Dog Day, I know to pour your favorite expensive scotch when your ex-wife is in town. Why wouldn't you speak to me today in the elevator? We usually talk in the elevator, and it makes me think you're mad."

"I assure you that I'm not mad. You're limping."

"My foot hurts, Jack. Stop changing the subject."

He handed her an ice pack, motioning her to the couch. "I apologize for making you feel.. unappreciated. I forget that you're a woman sometimes. I simply had my mind on other things. Do you know that Don Geiss left his Rolls Royce to Devon? Anyway, here we are now. Don't apply too much pressure, there."

"I know how to ice a foot, Jack. Frick."

"Lemon, if I had any idea my silence would put you in such distress, I would have engaged in some plebian small talk."

"I'm not in _distress_," she said with a huff. "I just.."

"Now you're the one who isn't talking."

"It's just been a rough day, Jack, and you were the last straw on the camel's hump that broke its back."

"I know. Tracy and Jenna will work it out, as usual. Pete's back next week. Kenneth will start putting those sedatives in Jenna's coffee again. Now can I please go to bed?"

Liz nodded. "I'm sorry. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow."

Liz stood up and promptly fell down again.

"My foot hurts."

Jack sighed. "Let me take a look."

"Ew, no. What?"

"Lemon, I promise not to be disgusted. I have seen a woman's foot before."

Liz sighed and nodded.

Jack gently removed her sandal and bent his head down to her foot, Liz trying not to shudder. Or was it shiver? She could feel his breath on her shameful lower extremity, and his bedhead was adorable. What? Jack? Adorable? Oh, whatever, he was. No use trying to deny it. It wasn't like she _liked_ him. Gross, he's her boss. But no one could deny he was good-looking, in a dapper bearish sort of way. A dapper bear in a business suit. She chuckled to herself, wondering if he'd see the reference if she put that in a skit.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. What do you think?"

"Have you ever gotten a pedicure in your life, Lemon? I mean--"

"Alright, that's enough. I'm fine. I'll limp on home now."

"No, I'm sorry, it is swelling a bit. You shouldn't walk right now."

"Jack, I have to go home. It's late."

"I'm well aware of the time, Lemon. If you remember, _you_ were the one who woke _me_. At any rate, sit here for a little while, and we'll see if it bruises."

"Why were you slamming the door, anyway?"

"It's a heavy door, Lemon. I'm very wealthy. What's your door, wood?"

Lemon looked at him incredulously. "I'm not going to stay here."

"I want you to stay here."

"No, you want to keep dream-sexing Hilary Clinton."

"I want you to stay here, Lemon."

He looked at her with those eyes. Those eyes that he had that made her shiver when he looked at her that way that he was looking at her now.

"Are you cold, Lemon?" he said, still with those eyes.

"No. Yes. Some. I really have to go." It was then that she realized he was still holding her foot. "Can I have my foot?"

"No. Medical reasons."

"Jack."

"Elizabeth."

She shivered again.

Suddenly he stood up, saying, "Let me get you some Tylenol. It'll help."

While he was gone, Lemon settled into his couch and looked around the room. It was well-furnished, she could tell, and she didn't even know anything about furnishings. She'd found her couch on the street in Philadelphia. As it dawned on her that said couch may be the reason for her dry skin, he arrived with two ibuprofens and a glass of water. She took them from his outstretched hand, her fingertips grazing his palm, and, as she muttered a thank-you, she thought she saw a slight shiver in him.

"...Do you want to watch a movie?"

"No, Lemon, I don't."


End file.
